


They Called it Sonder

by Kas_tiel



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I dunno how to tag sorry, I mean, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Realism, Referenced Anxiety, Regeneration Angst (Doctor Who), The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Doctor is Awesome, The Doctor is Old and Wise and Will Make You Cry, copious use of italics, in the future, it is discussed?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 16:15:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17186255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kas_tiel/pseuds/Kas_tiel
Summary: Tendrils of internal battles were hidden across the TARDIS; her very old friend's struggle with himself, his battle with his own morality, had always been and would always be the most prominent. Echoes of artifacts broken in surges of anger and praising books ripped apart in despair were painted across her, engraved in her being, and on darker, sleepless nights, The Doctor would wander.





	They Called it Sonder

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, people of Archive of our Own. This is my first piece on here, and I am very excited. 
> 
> This came to life after a very recent obsession with Doctor Who, and- because I'm biased- I personally wrote this with the Eleventh Doctor in mind, breaking away a little from canon and using an original character because, for some reason, I could not picture the conversation going this way with either Clara or Amy (I love them both, though!). It could definitely happen between any Doctor and Companion you choose, though. I hope you'll enjoy all the hurt, because I did. Geronimo!

"I'm sorry."

Somewhere in the universe, in an ancient and very new box that was the bluest-blue, these two syllables would shatter any semblance of normalcy left in the room of that night. Spoken softly, cautiously, _unsure_ , and The Doctor would spin around (flamboyant, always flamboyant) and bend just a little to meet the eyes of the girl who spoke them. Behind _his_ eyes, his mind would be calculating- had he missed a tragedy, something gone wrong on their last escapade? Had he let go of his anger, made her think he was disappointed? Outwardly, he would let the corner of his mouth quirk up, a hint of a confused smile taking place as he would venture, "Whatever for?"

The girl would shrug a little, rolling her shoulders and then taking a deep breath. Ever the calculator, The Doctor would squint; he would look for the answer in her mannerisms, notice the way her anxiety had spiked, wonder if she was scared of _him_ or scared of _explaining_. He would move to take her hand but she would step back. The girl would collect herself, meet his eyes willingly and speak resolutely and slowly, "I've been thinking, you see, and- and none of it is fair. None of it is fair for you. You live and breathe and you regenerate, and you've been doing that for hundreds of years, and that means that you've probably had to lose  _everyone_ , Doctor; every single person and every single companion you know or will know has and will turn to dust before you and I know I'm not making it better but-"

"Where is this co-"

"Just let me _finish_!"

Desperation and sudden ferocity would blanket the word, and it would nearly make the Doctor stumble. Eyes widening and his fingers twirling in and around each other, he would be both crushed and engulfed in amazement and confusion. Inexplicably, this _human_ girl that had somehow wormed her way into his heart had worked herself into a state by thinking of his life, by pondering his eternal curse and his eternal gift.

"Doctor, you're good," and her eyes would start watering here, glimmer in stories she could never know (because they would break her, consume her fragile human mind until nothing was left) but had seen reflected in The Doctor's eyes, "You're good to us, and you're _just_ good, and you protect us and save us - it's the only thing you do. _So_ , _so many times_ , you've been willing to sacrifice yourself for billions of people who don't know you exist, and I have  _never_ seen you hesitate. None of us, not humans or the Homo-Whatever or even Oods have always been good, that just seems impossible, and you _still_ fight for us- you fight for us until we're gone, and then you keep fighting," she would take a breath here, search for something and ask for an answer she wasn't sure she wanted (unaware that she had changed time  by not staying silent, unaware that the day could have gone one of two ways and that- by asking, and by acknowledging- she had made the future better for it), "Why?"

Opening his mouth, The Doctor would realize he had lost words. Broken syllables of reasons would echo in his mind, pulsating with fervor, and he would have nothing to say, nothing to think except one thing on loop.

_She thought him good._

The realization would be remembered until the end of his last regeneration. Tendrils of internal battles were hidden across the TARDIS, you see; her very old friend's struggle with himself, his battle with his own morality, had always been and would always be the most prominent. Echoes of artifacts broken in surges of anger and praising books ripped apart in despair were painted across her, engraved in her being, and on darker, sleepless nights, The Doctor would wander. Counting up mistakes and weighing them studiously against his victories, pondering his own being and actions, he would wander. Through years of doing so, he had ascertained only one fact: whether or not he was a decent living being was a question he, himself, would never have the ability to answer. The fact that someone else- someone he trusted, and valued, and cared for, would go so far as to call him  _good?_ Discovering that on the night that he would- the night their conversation would be eternalized by the very ship they were standing on and turned into echoes for all his future selves to hear and remember- would mean everything.

And so, awkward and uncomfortably emotional, The Doctor would nod. Smiling something painted in blood he refused to wash off, he would move to the TARDIS console. One button would be pressed, and the birth of stars would be displayed on her screens. After that, some creatures covered in (what seemed to be) the blackest tar embracing each other on a battlefield, the Queen of The Years singing with her people to their believed-to-be God, some men at war tossing a football between them and singing carols in the Trenches, a human baby grasping his older sisters finger, a rose growing on a barren and foreseen field- The TARDIS would show what The Doctor saw, what he clung onto any moment he felt he was about to lose his footing.

"I'm honored that you think me good," a quiet hum would rise, leaking warning and love and a request for him to speak the truth, for once, and to disregard the first rule. The Doctor would drum his fingers fondly on the console, clear his throat in acceptance, and then continue, "I'm honored, because I'm not sure that I am; at the end of it all, I'm only a madman with a box,"

"You protect us, though," The girl would repeat it like a prayer, seeking nothing but his own belief in himself, and he would be forced to wonder what he ever did to deserve her, "That has to count for something, right?" 

Silence would engulf the room, blanket it's inhabitants and force them to ponder the question.

"Yes. Yes, I suppose I do, don't I? Through the years and past the years and before the years, it's all I've been trying to do: protect you. I used to think it was my way of repenting," The Doctor's eyes would close, and Gallifrey's fire would flash within them before they opened again, "But I was wrong, it could never have been just that. Ever suddenly stopped and realized that everything living around you, all the people and all the aliens, have their own lives?"

"I suppo-"

"Don't answer that- of course you have, I do it all the time. There's a word for it, too: sonder. All the possible ways the letters could have been arranged, all the words they could have derived it from, and they called it _sonder_. A wonderful, amazing word, it is- it's proof that, no matter how broken, or hopeless, or alone I may feel or be, people's lives are going on. They're _living_ , and _birthing_ , and- and getting degrees and singing to Gods and making the Universe's largest amusement parks, and it is _beautiful_ , " a quick clearing of his throat (but no tears. If he could help it, never any tears), " My lovely girl, have I told you about the galaxies I've witnessed come to life? They create themselves through _nothing_ , and they become _everything_. Pull stars and life towards them, create homes and foster hope. Despite, or maybe because of, all the hurt everything and everyone has given it, the universe _keeps expanding_ ,"

"It  _will_ end, I know that. I've seen it end, I've stood there as worlds consumed themselves and as all light ebbed away, but- here, right now, and in so many people's _now_ , it is growing. Humanity and literal _life_ is growing, and it is absolutely gorgeous," an unneeded breath, a quiet moment, "You ask why I keep fighting for that?" 

Steps leaking age, contrasting so terrifyingly with his youthful face, The Doctor would walk forwards and clasp the girl's hands. Bringing them up to his lips, he'd kiss her knuckles and let out a watery, tired laugh, "Tell me, how could I _possibly_ not?"

 

**Author's Note:**

> There you have it. A little bit of a messy piece by fifteen-year-old me. Inspiration was taken from my own ponderings, Matt Smith's brilliant way of appearing so tired and old and worn out at a then-twenty-something years old, and Sleeping At Last's Saturn. Please let me know what you thought and how I did, I would appreciate it immensely. Stay happy, people.


End file.
